


A Possible Course of Action

by Hope



Category: Lord of the Rings - Fandom
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-07-20
Updated: 2002-07-20
Packaged: 2017-10-02 13:36:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hope/pseuds/Hope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fluff. Smut. Shireromp. (pre-quest.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Possible Course of Action

He knew that if he put his mouth right _here_, Frodo would stir and shift and wake in a most delicious manner, still delectably warm and tousled from sleep as he rolled over with a groan of protest to offer his mouth for the taking. And the morning would consist of an endless string of cups of tea and bacon-greasy kisses until Frodo rose, pressed the air up above his head and in a back-arching stretch, then ambled off to the bathroom to wash. And this signified -- as much as Sam wanted to follow him -- the start of a day's work in the garden.

*****

And he would soon fall into familiar rhythm -- muscles on his back stretching and contracting as he shovelled the rich, fertile earth of the elaborately constructed compost heap into the wheelbarrow, planning in his head the new season's blossoms for the window box of Frodo's study and recalling the breathtaking shades of Frodo's skin in the candlelight.

He would whistle softly as he straightened to wheel the barrow toward the window of Frodo's study, and peer into the room through the open windows; then peer more intently, because Frodo was nowhere to be --

A sudden damp breath on his ear, and hips pressed snug from behind, cool, slender hands hiding beneath fabric and "Do you know, I've been sitting behind that infernal desk all morning just _watching_ you," -- whispered words interrupted with swipes of Frodo's tongue-- "and I don't think I can _bear_ it any longer . . ."

The gift of Frodo's mouth then, savouring the tight muscle at the corner of his neck and shoulder as if it were a ripe fruit, making soft sounds of appreciation which sparked delightfully in Sam almost as much as the hands touching him in a most _distracting_ manner . . .

And soon enough he wouldn't be able to bear it much longer and would gasp something, _"Frodo,"_ perhaps, and turn his head. Frodo would move his hands up then, pressing against Sam's chest then sliding around broad shoulders as he turned Sam's body around to face him. And Sam would slip his own arms about low Frodo's waist and open his mouth to Frodo's bruising kiss; the slick slide of tongues and lips and _teeth_ blending with the heady scent of pollen on the air and the heat of Frodo tight against, him hotter than the sun beating down on them.

Frodo's hands, then, fumbling at his collar; Sam's rising up to meet them, capture them, and his voice, not a little unsteady and panting as he tried to break away but Frodo seemed to have a singly obsessive fascination with Sam's lower lip . . .

"Sir . . . I . . . We--" A gasp. "_Oh_ . . . The _Row_ Sir, people might _see_ . . . I--!"

"Ah," Frodo would murmur, eyes half lidded as he withdrew scarce inches and smoothed his hands over Sam's still-clothed chest, fingers spread wide. "Well, then." He would push Sam back, gently, until Sam could feel the sun-heated wall of Bag End pressing his shoulder blades and smell the delicate fragrance of the honeysuckle curling about the eaves; and Frodo would follow the downward trajectory of his hands until he was kneeling before Sam. "Am I out of sight now?" Hidden from potential passer-byes by the barrow full of earth.

And Sam would barely be able to speak in reply for where Frodo's hands moved next; the exquisite torture of them moving so lightly over his fabric-covered flesh and then -- _Oh_ the cool smoothness of them on him, exposing him, and warm breath, damp and full of laughter --

"Well, Samwise, looks like you're ready to do some planting today."

\-- Being able to quickly blurt out, "Mr _Frodo!_ Now's hardly the time to--" Before all speech and rational thought fled because Frodo licked a trail of fire from root to tip and _Oh--_

"F--Frodo-!" he bleated, his reeling thoughts taking a while to catch up enough to realise that the sound came from himself; resting in the cradle between Frodo's thumb and forefinger as he pressed Sam's hips from pushing forward.

And, _and_, Frodo's _mouth_ . . . Being unable to watch as those fine, beloved lips closed around him; in fact only being able to let his head back fall into the honeysuckle vine with a groan at the sudden wetness, the sudden heat, the unexpected flick of Frodo's _tongue_ and . . .

Struggling not to _thrust_ as Frodo laughed around him; the sound barely audible but shivering up through his skin and raising the fine hair on his arms and making him grit his teeth and oh, Frodo, _Frodo_,

_"Frodo!"_

as the heady scent of blossoms swirling with the brilliant green of the garden and the heat of the sun sharp in contrast to the dusky curls entwined in his fingers; the knowledge of it all giving way to _feeling_ as it bubbled up, effervescent, and _burst_ like _spring _. . .

And Frodo would laugh softly and remove his hand to wipe his mouth before drawing a quite unresisting Sam down to tumble onto the grass beside him. And Frodo would fall on top of him then, lips still eager and urgent on Sam's this time; lingering tastes of tea and spring and Sam's own essence in the hidden corners of his mouth until his soft sounds of need draw Sam back to hypersensitive awareness. And then Sam would roll over and pin Frodo beneath him, careful not to crush as Frodo's cries of gratitude then ecstasy wash over him then through him; and it would be over soon after that.

*****

And the scent of honeysuckle and grass and earth and Frodo would curl around him, blanket him as he lay formless below the window, half-wrapped in Frodo. And, out of sight as they were, Frodo would toy lazily with the buttons on his homespun shirt, then slip a hand in and rest it there, still unreasonably cool against Sam's skin.

"What are you planning on planting in the window box?" he would ask softly, stretching up a little the press the words directly to Sam's jawline.

"Whatever you want me to, dear," Sam would murmur in reply, still half-drunk on the waves of pleasure and the heady smell of spring time.

Frodo would chuckle softly, then, and wrap tighter about Sam like a creeping vine, tendrils of hair like new shoots curling about Sam's fingers. "You're the gardener. I'll leave it up to your good judgement."

**Author's Note:**

> http://hopeful-fiction.livejournal.com/3539.html


End file.
